


Want

by winwinism



Series: Request [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Universe, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism
Summary: Atsumu and Kiyoomi go on a date.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: Request [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698271
Comments: 16
Kudos: 234





	Want

Kiyoomi invites him out to dinner and a movie. It’s not a big deal. Atsumu’s hands _don’t_ shudder slightly as he types out his reply, and they make arrangements in a few succinct texts, after which his roommate asks him what that expression is supposed to mean, and wait a second, is he alright? “You’re like, really red.” Atsumu doesn’t respond, content with closing his eyes and bumping a fist to his pursed lips, silently pumping the other in the air. “The love of your life, again?”

“ _No_.” 

Atsumu finds the spot Kiyoomi picked out tucked in a sleepy corner of the city, so small and nondescript that he might’ve missed it if his date--his _date_ \--weren’t standing outside, haloed by the warm glow of a streetlamp. Atsumu’s chest throbs as he pulls up to the curb. Is he nervous? He slaps the steering wheel and shakes his shoulders as if it might wring out the jitters. Doesn’t work. Oh well.

Kiyoomi’s eyes follow him as Atsumu gets out. Pulse buzzing, his lips form a greeting, but the words catch in his throat when Kiyoomi nods as if to invite Atsumu closer, hands fisted in his jacket, expression obscured by his mask and the low sweep of his bangs. Atsumu goes. 

He leaves a few feet between them and cracks a smile. “Hey. You look good.” Which is to say, the same as ever. The way those washed-out black jeans hug Kiyoomi’s muscular thighs is a new development, and a real positive Atsumu would say, but he leaves this commentary to his thoughts. 

In lieu of a response, Kiyoomi’s eyes skirt from side to side, taking in the empty street; then he seizes the front of Atsumu’s sweater and pulls him inward so suddenly that Atsumu nearly stumbles. His gaze drops to Atsumu’s lips, and Kiyoomi tugs the mask below his chin, exposing the part of his mouth to the cool night air. 

“Wha--” Kiyoomi seals their lips together, warm and urgent, muffling Atsumu’s noise of surprise. Atsumu’s eyebrows shoot up, but he melts in the next moment, tension bleeding from his shoulders as he inhales the rich, woodsy scent of Kiyoomi’s cologne. _Oh, that’s new_. His lips part unconsciously, and Kiyoomi breaks the kiss at once. His eyes flick up to Atsumu’s, then away. 

“Hey,” Kiyoomi says. He releases Atsumu’s sweater and lets his arms hang limp at his sides. Atsumu huffs. 

“Wow, Kiyoomi. It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”

Pulling up his mask, Kiyoomi _humphs_ noncommittally. “We should go in. The movie starts at eight.” Bastard. But Atsumu did hand over the reins to this--this _relationship_ , so. Can’t exactly start filing complaints to that end now. 

“About that. You gonna tell me what movie we’re seeing, or what?” 

Kiyoomi pauses for a moment, hand hovering over the door handle. “It’ll be a surprise.” 

“If it’s horror, I’m never tossing to you again.” 

Kiyoomi’s eyes flash as they lift to meet his. “It’s not. Also…” He edges away from the door and gives Atsumu a subtle nudge. “Might you…go first,” he suggests softly. 

“Oh.” Kiyoomi’s pale hands have already retreated to his jacket. A little emboldened, Atsumu steps forth and sports a gracious smirk as he pulls the door open, falling back to let Kiyoomi through. “As you wish.” 

“Thanks.” The interior is warmly-lit and smells wonderful, eddies of spices and rich, buttery cooking spilling onto the street. Atsumu’s stomach rumbles on cue. 

“So, is this how it is? Am I being used for door-opening purposes?”

“If you don’t mind.” Following him inside, Atsumu swears he catches a sly curve to Kiyoomi’s lips. Atsumu’s own grin is irrepressible. 

The restaurant is near-vacant, the lighting low and intimate in a way that hushes their voices; but it’s casual, with bare wooden tables and the kind of home-style cooking that saturates the taste buds and sticks to the ribs. Slurping down his curry, Atsumu lets out a thoughtless moan, only to look up and find Kiyoomi staring at him with an odd flush staining his cheeks. 

“What?” Those dewy grays flick away, telling on themselves. Atsumu savors it almost more than the food. “Perving on me, aren’t cha?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Kiyoomi mutters. “It’s disgusting.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Kiyoomi’s jaw tightens, and his fingers twitch around his chopsticks. Somehow, Atsumu likes the look of that. 

The movie theater is a five minute walk to another address Atsumu doesn’t recognize. It’s smaller than he expected, too, the marquee over the entryway advertising a short schedule of equally unfamiliar titles. The interior is empty save for a girl behind the ticket booth, who fetches a pair of reserved tickets on Kiyoomi’s request. Atsumu wonders if reserving them was necessary, but Kiyoomi assures him it was. You never know when a bunch of film students might come through.

The venue’s sole screening room is the smallest Atsumu has ever seen, the carpeting a grimy gray and the half-sized screen framed by red velvet curtains. There are a couple dozen seats surfaced in cracked red vinyl, and at the very front of the lot sits an old man with a liver-spotted head, humming to himself in the empty theater. Not entirely empty--at the back, just out of reach of the overhead lights, Atsumu spots a younger, high school-age couple, guy and a girl. They look awfully close. Atsumu wonders how they ended up at a place like this. 

“It’s an art house theater,” Kiyoomi explains. “They screen older, foreign films. New ones if they’re good.”

“I hate it already.”

“What? Why?” 

“No popcorn. No concessions at all, actually.” 

Kiyoomi slumps back in his seat and rolls his eyes. “You can’t _snack_ while there’s a film on, you won’t be able to hear anything. Weren’t you just whining about being full?”

Hand going to his tender stomach, Atsumu concedes the point. “So, you come here often?”

Kiyoomi’s eyebrows furrow, probably scowling beneath his mask. Atsumu snorts at the image. “Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, I do. So?”

“That’s so sad.” Atsumu scooches across his seat and slides an arm around the back of Kiyoomi’s chair, knuckles just grazing the nape of his neck. Kiyoomi’s expression betrays nothing. “You’re gonna have to bring me along from now on, or I’ll cry myself to sleep thinking about it.” 

“We’ll see,” he says primly as the lights dim and the screen before them flickers to life, flooding the theater with a title screen full of English lettering Atsumu wouldn’t bet a circus peanut on being able to pronounce. Atsumu knocks on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, leaning in close enough to bite his earlobe. Kiyoomi stiffens. 

“There’ll be subtitles, right?”

A beat, and Kiyoomi exhales. “Yes, obviously. Shh.” 

Kiyoomi shrugs his opposite shoulder, dislodging Atsumus’ arm, and Atsumu withdraws into his seat. No getting cozy, then. He can live with that. He’s lived with the state of not-cuddling-Kiyoomi well enough thus far, even if at present it seems unbearable. The couple behind them probably are.

The truth of this assumption makes itself abundantly clear about half an hour in. The movie’s quiet enough that he can hear them macking on each other, jackets rustling as their limbs surreptitiously slither around and intertwine.

Atsumu, bored numb by the film’s languorous pace and impenetrable plot, steals glances at Kiyoomi’s profile. Admires the sharp, statuesque cut of his jaw, mostly, but not long enough that he might be caught doing so. Kiyoomi watches expressionlessly, unblinking. He might be rapt or just as bored, and Atsumu hates that he can’t tell. 

The flick is French, Atsumu can tell that much. More non-sexual nudity and topless women than Atsumu normally expects to see at the movies, too. During one such scene, he realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t even know if Kiyoomi likes women. Not that important, considering he’s not a woman--or is it? He’s never dated a man before. He doesn’t know how these things work. He briefly imagines telling Kiyoomi that he’s not straight, seriously--he had that crisis in _high school_ \--that this isn’t just a phase. He then imagines the array of responses he might get. A blank stare, a contemptuous snort; something like: “You could’ve saved your breath. The way you drooled over my dick last week didn’t exactly smack of heterosexuality.” Atsumu’s filed-down fingernails dig into his palms at the memory. _Not now_. 

But he doesn’t really know. His imagination is a callous, unflattering thing when it comes to Kiyoomi, he thinks, always calculating the next barb or veiled insult. It’s so he’ll never flinch, not because he has a low opinion of Kiyoomi. That would be impossible. Right? And in front of the team, he never does; but when they’re alone, Kiyoomi shocks him breathless with every tender expression and soft word, murmured like it’s a trial to let Atsumu overhear. Atsumu swears he’ll never get used to it. With time, maybe, he might. He’d prefer that to the nerve-wracking uncertainty, the constant pitching and wheeling of his emotions every moment of this fragile young thing between them. Supposing it lasts.

For a split second, Atsumu pictures them old and gray, as bored of each other as he is of this movie. The image flits through him with the guilty tenor of an unspeakably illicit fantasy. His heart seizes; he blinks it away, cheeks heating up as he steals another glance at Kiyoomi. 

Kiyoomi is quiet as they leave the theater, with a contemplative, somewhat gloomy air that makes Atsumu feel like he should leave him be. The air outside is heavy and the sidewalk darkened with wet; it must’ve rained while they were inside. A couple stray drops hit Atsumu’s cheek, and he looks up into the clouded-over night. 

Clearing his throat, Atsumu ventures: “Well, at least it wasn’t horror.”

Kiyoomi hums. “I wouldn’t have brought you if it was.” 

“It was a little creepy though, if you ask me.” Not entirely a lie--he had caught a few eerily surreal scenes between his daydreams and tortured introspection and less-than-covert staring at Kiyoomi. 

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi says dryly. “Are you alright?”

“No, no, a little creepy is fine. I’m not a baby, geez.”

“Didn’t think you were.” 

_What a relief_. “Thanks, though,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, then swinging them at his sides. His fingers skim over Kiyoomi’s knuckles for the briefest instant, sending a bolt of warmth through him almost embarrassing in its intensity. “It’s been a long time since I went on a movie date. Makes me feel like I’m high school again.” _In more ways than one_. “Never really paid much attention to the movies, though. Heh--like those two kids in the back.” 

Kiyoomi shoots him an unreadable sidelong glance, lip popping out from between his teeth. Atsumu blinks.

“You ever do that back in high school?” he asks, oblivious. Kiyoomi shakes his head slowly. “Oh.” 

His stomach drops. He could kick himself--two minutes and he’s talking about past dates like Kiyoomi could give a fuck, like they’re still just teammates and not _involved_. Implicitly comparing _this_ to his two-week girlfriends from Inarizaki. Maybe he still doesn’t know what _this_ is, or how Kiyoomi thinks of it, but he damn well knows it’s not _that_. 

“I dated a middle blocker in college,” Kiyoomi says, unprompted, knocking Atsumu off-balance for the umpteenth time. “But we didn’t go on dates, per se. Didn’t have a lot of money. We ate takeout in our dorm rooms.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says again, reeling, then mentally combing through Kiyoomi’s words for a pronoun. “Were they...on your team?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi replies, some force behind the syllable as if impressing upon Atsumu a point. Atsumu swallows thickly. 

“How tall?”

“Short for a middle blocker,” Kiyoomi says. “Not like Shouyou, but enough to take notice.” 

“Well, Shouyou’s one in a million.” In retrospect, the question, blurted without thinking, seems to Atsumu painfully insecure and nakedly jealous. Which he is. His tongue, it seems, was ahead of his mind. He’s dying to know more, but the apparent inappropriateness of asking and the pangs of jealousy any answers might inspire steer him away from the subject. Thick-tongued, he settles on: “I’ve...never done that, myself.” 

Kiyoomi tilts his chin towards him. “Never done what?”

“Dated someone...on my team.” 

Again, the double meaning is only apparent after he’s said it. Flushing, he hopes Kiyoomi picks up on it. “Then it’s the opposite for me,” he says, even-toned. 

“Really? More than the one guy?”

“No. Just the one.” 

Atsumu humphs. It suits Kiyoomi, that he’d only ever dated another player, even if it rankles Atsumu that it means he’s not the first. Volleyball, the pre-eminent love affair of their lives, demands a share of their energies that non-players just don’t understand; and if you’d asked Atsumu a few months ago, he was finding it hard to picture Kiyoomi passionate about anything else. Even in the graphic, minutely detailed fantasies Atsumu entertained in the moments where his self-control failed, Kiyoomi’s motivating frustration was cumming so that he could get back to practice, or some other volleyball-related routine of his. But Atsumu can take being wrong about that. He’s never had much of an imagination, anyway. 

“Must’ve been nice,” Atsumu rambles on. “No one I ever dated _got_ it. They wanna be first, y’know? No one wants to come second to a _sport_. It’s just a game, that’s what they all say when you really press ‘em. But another player...”

“He broke my heart,” Kiyoomi says, and Atsumu’s head whips around, forgetting all that he’d been about to say. Kiyoomi's eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, his chin level. “It wasn’t very nice.” 

“Oh.” A numb feeling subsumes his fingertips. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t _apologize_ ,” Kiyoomi scolds him softly. “You didn’t do it. Did you?”

_I’d never_. “Guess not,” Atsumu says. He thumbs his pockets, feeling restless, and exhales through his nose. Then, setting his shoulders, he reaches out and fumbles for Kiyoomi’s unsuspecting hand, wrapping it in his fingers and rubbing his thumb down Kiyoomi’s warm palm. He squeezes once, lets go. He glances up, and notices Kiyoomi’s shoulders have visibly tightened. 

“Don’t do that.”

Though he’s guilty now, Atsumu apologizes without feeling. His eyes bore into the side of Kiyoomi’s face, an indescribable feeling welling within him, before he turns back to the night. 

The restaurant’s front window is darkened when they return to it. The street is as empty as ever, the heavy silence broken only by the distant hum of unseen vehicles and trickle of water into catch basins. Their cars, surfaces beaded with rainwater, are unfashionable, both bought used. Atsumu has it on good authority that Kageyama Tobio had his sporty little whip imported custom from Italy not long after 2016. _Fuck him, seriously_. He hovers at the curb, hands fisted in his jacket, not sure how to approach Kiyoomi about what he wants next. 

“Look at me.” 

Atsumu’s attention snaps to Kiyoomi, suddenly before him and dizzyingly close. His eyes glitter like black diamonds as he pulls the mask below his chin, the shape of his mouth indiscrete in shadow. Atsumu’s mind leaps to the memory of kisses in an alley outside an izakaya, and he steals a glance at the alley next to the restaurant, the stinking darkness of it hardly appropriate for romancing someone after a _date_. “D’you want to go back to--”

Kiyoomi’s firm lips silence him. His arms snake around Atsumu’s waist and pull him inward with resolute force. His belt buckle digs into Atsumu’s lower belly. He shifts, nudging his knee between Atsumu’s thighs and pulling at his lower lip. Atsumu groans. His skin feels stretched tight and oversensitive, primed for Kiyoomi’s touch after spending hours with him just out of reach. He feels blood pumping into his dick with every desperate beat of his heart as Kiyoomi’s broad hands rake up his back, cradling him. Kiyoomi’s knee presses harder, almost to the point of discomfort, circling with the rhythmic movements of his lips. Kiyoomi could rub him to completion here, just like this, and Atsumu might not even care. No, he knows he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t take long, either. 

Just as the thought strikes him, the kiss ends. But Kiyoomi is reluctant to pull away entirely, breath coming heavy through parted lips and brushing up against Atsumu’s face. He must feel Atsumu hardening in his jeans, but his thigh remains where it is. 

“My place,” Atsumu finishes hoarsely. Kiyoomi’s eyebrow quirks. He peels their bodies apart, and it takes a concerted effort for Atsumu to suppress a whine. 

“Goodnight,” Kiyoomi says, backing away and turning to his vehicle. He’s digging out his keys. Atsumu gapes.

“That a no, then?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t look back. Atsumu wonders if he’s embarrassed. “No. Not tonight.”

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?” Atsumu says, caught between real indignation and the impulse to make it into a joke. “Someday that’ll come back ‘n bite you in the ass.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” Kiyoomi says, “ _biting_ me in the ass.”

Atsumu humphs, adjusting himself in his jeans. “I’m game, if that’s what you’re into.” 

Kiyoomi pauses. Tosses his keys from one hand to the other. “We should take it slow.” 

“Bit late for that.” Ravaged by disappointment that he must be trying and failing to mask, Atsumu takes comfort in the romantic overtones of Kiyoomi’s words, of the meaning buried in each syllable-- _we_ and _it_ and _slow_. 

“But I’d like it,” Kiyoomi says, letting Atsumu’s remark go unanswered, “if you thought of me.” 

He shoots Atsumu a _look_ with slightly narrowed eyes, letting it drag on for a beat. Atsumu thinks he catches Kiyoomi’s drift. 

It’s been hours since the beer he had with dinner, but Atsumu feels drunk as he drives back to his flat. Between the restless pounding of his heart and the lingering tightness in his jeans, he’s sure this qualifies as distracted driving. _Sakusa Kiyoomi ought to be a controlled substance_. There’s only so much a man can take. He entertains a fantasy of Kiyoomi giving him road head--no condom--and maturely refrains from jacking off at the next red light. 

As he re-enters his apartment, however, he remembers Kiyoomi’s middle blocker ex, and the rush of intense curiosity wins out over his desire to get off. Never let it be said that Atsumu hasn’t matured since high school. Shut in his room, he plops down in front of his laptop and searches up the homepage of Kiyoomi’s former university (the name of which, of course, he has memorized). For a moment, he stares at it dumbly. Then, wising up, he searches the school’s name plus _men’s volleyball_ and locates Kiyoomi’s senior year lineup within a few clicks. 

They had three middle blockers. One square-jawed and massively tall, going on the height listed below each player’s name; another with tawny brown hair and a slight smirk. The third wears glasses, a sheaf of black hair swept over his forehead. Atsumu stares, wound up in frustration at his inability to tell just by looking which one was Kiyoomi’s, until he remembers: _short for a middle blocker_. The tawny-haired one is the shortest, about the same height as Atsumu is now. His face flushes as he clicks on the picture, enlarging his proud features and clear skin, the curve of his red lips. _He broke my heart_. Frustration at his good looks, admittedly equal to Kiyoomi’s if he’s being objective about it, turns to a sick pit of loathing, boiling up from Atsumu’s gut with a sour taste that curls his own lips into a scowl. 

He wants to click away and wipe the page from his browser history, forget he’d ever bothered to do this, but he has to know. He searches the name listed and scrolls through results about the man’s college career, absent any mention of a V.League or foreign debut. Must not have gone on to play professionally. Odd, coming from a team of that caliber, but so be it. Atsumu couldn’t care less. He slams his laptop shut and lets out a long, low exhale. 

_Damn_. He’s _really_ let Kiyoomi fuck him up. 

The Black Jackals have a friendly that week, which is a real sick joke of a name for an event that’s the furthest from _friendly_ as a non-deadly sport can get. They’re playing the Azuma Pharmacy Green Rockets, which means Shouyou spends the preceding practices going on and on about Goshiki Tsutomu and how he’s going to nail that razor-sharp straight he’s been working on right in the Shiratorizawa alumnus’s smug little _face_.

“Not _in_ his face, I hope,” Atsumu says, the only one besides the ever-supportive Koutarou entertaining his rant. “Might get fouled for that.” 

“No no no, just in _front_ of it. A little to the side.” He swings his arm in a slow-motion spike, face twisted up in boyish concentration. 

“Yeah, yeah, make him _eat it!_ ” Koutarou says, giving Shouyou a loud smack on the back. “Hell, I’ll even buy you a drink if you do!” 

Shouyou doesn’t drink--even Atsumu knows that--but he croons his enthusiasm anyway. Atsumu rolls his eyes. 

In his periphery, he spots Kiyoomi tipping his head back as he downs a Pocari Sweat. Atsumu doesn’t try to catch his eye--he’s been doing his part to keep this whole thing low-key, which, _duh_. They don’t hate their careers. All the unknowables keep niggling at him, too: would their relationship be so unthinkable, so beyond the pale, that any such sad precautions as these are unnecessary--or would the other Black Jackals guess at it? What would it take for them to put two and two together? For the life of him, he can’t say. Better that they keep their distance. Let the others think nothing has changed. 

But he notices Kiyoomi pause for a beat too long, noticing Atsumu notice him. A chill passes through him, despite his warmed-up muscles and the sweat on his brow. He averts his eyes. Shouyou is still talking. 

The day of breaks cloudy and gray, with a thunderstorm warning for the afternoon--right around when the game’s supposed to start. At the sound of his alarm, Atsumu wakes to a fast-fading memory of a dream and a rather severe case of morning wood. Unfortunately, his schedule doesn’t have much time built in to enjoy either; but he lets his eyes close anyway, scrunching his brow and clinging hopefully to the vague feelings brought on by the dream as his phone chirps away. 

The moment he silences his alarm, the threads of it weave together all at once into a horribly perfect, film-like recreation. Frozen in place, his arm still outstretched towards his phone, it knocks the last traces of sleep right out of him. 

In the dream, Atsumu’s sitting around the dinner table in his childhood home, his parents on either end and Osamu at the space across, their moody kid sister slouching over her phone at his left elbow. They must’ve finished eating, because the table is vacant save for a black leather album on Atsumu’s placemat. His mom props her chin on her folded hands, her eyes fixed on the album, plainly curious. “Why don’t you show us, Atsumu? We all want to see what you’ve been up to.” 

His unconscious mind didn’t conjure up that album out of nowhere. Right before his abortive go at university, his grandmother had given it to him as a going-away gift. She loved photo albums, putting them together and showing them off. She’s dead now, and Atsumu’s album is still collecting dust in one of the storage bins in his closet. Looking down at it, Atsumu’s dream-self feels a horrible sense of foreboding wash over him. It isn’t empty, he’s certain of it, but he’s not sure he particularly wants to see what’s inside. 

Osamu and his father are watching, too. He can feel all three pairs of eyes on him at once, pressing into his skin. His father nods his encouragement. “Go on, son, open it.” 

Atsumu’s throat tightens. He moves as if his limbs are filled with helium, bobbing listlessly up into the air. The album falls open, and the front cover thuds onto the table. 

Kiyoomi’s dark glower stares up from the first page. The picture is so washed-out it’s nearly black and white, and he’s gorgeous, so gorgeous that Atsumu’s gut clenches. “Who’s that?” his mother says, distantly. “A friend of yours?” Atsumu flips the page, and more photos of Kiyoomi spill into view: close-ups, arty portraits in really sexy, dramatic lighting. “Oh, handsome.” He wants to pause and take a good, long look, but the pages keep turning. 

The clothes fall away from Kiyoomi’s body, bit by bit, until he’s parading across the plastic pages of the album fully nude, every centimeter of his freckle-spattered, alabaster skin on display, these fantastic come-hither eyes staring out at the camera in every shot. Atsumu’s face burns with equal parts arousal and shame. He wants to slam the album shut, but he seems to have lost control of his body. His family looks on, his sister now joining them, their silence weighing on him like a physical touch. “Don’t look,” he says in a weak, strained voice. 

“Is that what you’ve been doing?” his mother asks. He doesn’t dare look up. He has an acute premonition that if he did, the face he’d see would have black, sunken eyes and a gaping, teeth-rimmed, lipless hole of a mouth, like a demon from that awful, awful horror flick he saw when he was eleven. Instead, he stares down at the album, paralyzed. 

The pictures seem to flicker and glide around the page, skirting Atsumu’s attempts to look at them directly. Kiyoomi’s nether regions, Atsumu can tell, are a pure, undifferentiated white, like a censored pornographic manga. Atsumu could laugh. One of the photos is so beautiful that Atsumu can hardly stand it; he wants to pluck it out and slip it in his back pocket as he runs away, far from this house and maybe all of Japan. Instead, he wakes up. 

Now, Atsumu lets his head fall into his hand, and says into the quiet apartment: “ _God_ , what the _fuck_.” But there’s no time to dwell on it. Game today, and all. 

Atsumu’s a professional. He’s _been_ a professional since grade school, whether he was getting paid for it or not. So when he fucks up, when he has an off day, he’s still fucking good, leagues ahead of these other suckers who’ll never step out onto an Olympic court, god willing. But it’s something. Enough that the other professionals take notice. 

They’ve been circling each other like lions around a water hole the whole week, barely exchanging a word; but halfway through the first set, after a particularly bad point, Kiyoomi rounds on him and _stares_ , hard. Atsumu raises an eyebrow, but there’s no force behind it. He can’t front about this. 

_It’s because I flubbed my first serve_ , Atsumu thinks during a technical time-out. Coach is chewing him out. _No, it’s because of that dream_. Kiyoomi’s staring at him again. He refocuses on what Coach Foster is saying, knitting his brows, projecting determination and focus. _No, it’s because_ \--

_What am I even thinking?_ Excuses are for scrubs, not bad motherfuckers like him. There’s no such thing as momentum in volleyball, after all; so he thanks the coach and goes back out there with his jaw set. 

All in all, it’s a shitshow. The Rockets squeak out a win; and Atsumu thinks, as he watches them high-five each other and shout in delight, that their level of enthusiasm over besting the V.League champions in a _friendly_ is a little unsportsmanlike. Shouyou is as morose as Tsutomu is smug (and Atsumu can now confirm, having taken a closer look, that _smug_ is indeed apt); all of his line shots went wide. After, the atmosphere in the locker is heavy with words unspoken, frustrations repressed. The older guys talk, but that’s it. 

Then, before anyone’s even left, Kiyoomi trots up to him, folding his uniform top in front of his naked chest. Atsumu blinks at him dumbly; Kiyoomi’s expression, as usual, reveals nothing except a faint, cold disdain for the world. 

“Come over to my place,” he says. “We can watch the replay once coach sends it out.”

Atsumu fishes for words. “Uh...okay?” 

“We’ll have a lot to discuss, I think.” He turns, giving Atsumu an eyeful of his muscular shoulders. Even bathed in the unflattering yellow of the overhead lights, he still cuts a figure as elegant as the photos in Atsumu’s dream. “I’m disappointed,” he says, even-toned, and walks off to his own devices. 

Other Black Jackals are staring. Atsumu glances around at them and swallows hard, faintly anxious. Kiyoomi isn’t the type for locker room chat, certainly not for displays like that. But Atsumu isn’t the type to fuck up a match, either. He resumes packing away his things, feeling like the cloud hanging over his head might rain any minute. 

Atsumu has been to Kiyoomi’s apartment before--multiple times, by now--but today it appears before him entirely transformed. The great concrete block of it, drenched a shade darker than usual in the wake of the thunderstorm, juts into the bruise-colored sky like a crude fortress. As they ride up the elevator, Kiyoomi’s silence throbs with menace. Atsumu’s pulse picks up. He gets the feeling of walking into a tiger’s den, whatever that feels like--like he’s taking a thirty-second lift directly into its bloody maw. He shifts uncomfortably and twiddles his thumbs; Kiyoomi is blank-faced and still. Once, Kiyoomi checks his phone. It pings as an email comes in, and the sound makes Atsumu jolt. 

The door is pushed open. Kiyoomi flicks on the lights, snuffing out the dungeon-like dark. Atsumu steps inside, and nothing happens, at least not right away. He looks around, seeing that Kiyoomi’s place is the same as ever, then at Kiyoomi, who’s quietly peeling off his jacket and surgical mask. This done, he pads off into his bedroom. _Alright, then_. 

Kiyoomi emerges a moment later and grabs the stool from his kitchen, brings it back into his room. At this moment, Atsumu realizes that Kiyoomi actually intends to go over the game with him, and he feels very stupid indeed. 

His own jacket disposed of, and still a little hesitant. Atsumu follows Kiyoomi into his room. Kiyoomi’s sitting at the desk shoved in the corner, pulling up the video on his monitor; and when Atsumu enters, he waits several seconds before turning around.

Then he does, locking eyes on Atsumu, hovering uncertainly a few feet behind him. “You’re not going to sit?”

Atsumu’s eyes flick between the stool, the monitor, and him. “I--”

Before he can formulate a reply, Kiyoomi pushes out his chair and stands, rounding on Atsumu. He closes the distance between them until their noses nearly touch. The air between them is humid, their breath hot. Kiyoomi’s gray eyes are as cool as ever. He licks his lips, and Atsumu’s eyes fall to the pink curve of them on cue. 

“What’s up with you?” Kiyoomi says quietly, each syllable a threat. His eyes search Atsumu’s face. He starts forward so suddenly that Atsumu takes a step back, then another. His socked heels knock against Kiyoomi’s bed frame--he’s cornered. Kiyoomi’s hair, still damp after his post-game shower and a drizzle of rain, falls into his face in curly, unkempt locks, shadowing his heavy brows and dark eyes. It’s hot, but a little scary. Another beat, and Kiyoomi asks, “Did you look up my ex?”

Atsumu blinks. “What?” 

“Of course you did.” Answers the question of whether Atsumu should lie about it, he supposes. He decides to put up a front anyway.

“You psychic or something, now?”

“You’re very obvious about these things,” Kiyoomi says matter-of-factly; and Atsumu winces at a little sting of humiliation, comparing that to his own complete inability to read Kiyoomi. In a panic, he wonders what else Kiyoomi has been able to suss out of his too-open, too-obvious mien. Then Kiyoomi’s eyes cut away, his jaw working over his next words. “I’ve been wondering if I made the right decision.”

Pause. “A-about what?” Atsumu says through a weird, forced laugh.

“This.” Atsumu’s blood runs cold. “I thought that, if all went well, and we were honest with each other, it wouldn’t interfere.” He doesn’t need to clarify. 

“And you think it has,” Atsumu says in a flat voice. 

Again, Kiyoomi’s eyes find his; Atsumu suppresses a shiver. “You were out there today, weren’t you? That wasn’t Osamu?” 

At the mention of his brother, a spark of anger joins the icy fear in his bones. “You know damn well.”

“I’m shocked,” Kiyoomi says. “I hardly recognized the man on the court.” 

“You’re exaggerating.” _Excuses, excuses_. They just kept coming. Pathetic. 

“I’d never.” 

“Whatever. I think--” Atsumu scrubs the back of his neck, looks off elsewhere. “You’re being a little dramatic about this. It’s not--”

“Because of me?” Kiyoomi finishes, drawing closer until they’re toe-to-toe and Atsumu is forced to meet his gaze. “Of course it isn’t. If you can’t handle this, there’s nothing I can do about it.” 

Atsumu gapes at him, closes his mouth, swallows. He blinks rapidly. He feels a cruel retort building in his throat--his ego begs him to say it--but his eyes catch on the soft curl of Kiyoomi’s lashes, the somber gray of each iris, and the familiar pang in Atsumu’s heart makes him hold his tongue for once in his sorry life. “Kiyoomi,” he says instead, his voice low and raw. “Don’t.” 

Instead of backing off, Kiyoomi cocks his head. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t do this.” 

“I’m not--”

“Don’t fuck with me,” Atsumu says roughly, and adds in a hush, “ _please_.” 

Kiyoomi eyes him coldly for a distended moment. Atsumu can all but see the scales weighing behind his eyes. Atsumu’s fists ball up and release at his sides; he feels helpless, but he won’t say anything rash. He _won’t_. 

Then: “Don’t _cry_ ,” Kiyoomi says, reproachful, and Atsumu discovers that his eyes are, indeed, a little damp. The realization cracks open the ice between them, and Atsumu rubs his knuckles over his eyes, laughing a little as he does. 

“Fuck, man, sorry.” He blinks, wondering when _that_ had last happened, and shoots Kiyoomi a sheepish smile. But the look he finds there isn’t cowed, far from it. Kiyoomi’s chewing his lip, his brow furrowed almost angrily. 

“You’re _sorry_ ,” he bites out; but there’s no force behind it, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Unbidden, a phrase flashes before Atsumu’s eyes. _He broke my heart_. Like a sunrise after a cold night, the tension in his shoulders melts away. He softens. “Alright. I think I get it.” 

“What?” He _is_ angry. “What is there to get? I’m telling you--”

“You’re scared.” Atsumu cuts him off gently, only a little smug about this rare bolt of insight. The rest of him _sings_. Beneath his tousled bangs, Kiyoomi’s eyebrow arches. 

“Don’t turn this around on me.” 

“I’m not turning jack shit around on anyone. This is about _us_ , right? Not about that fucking game. We’re both involved in this thing. You’re scared, and I’m--fuck, I don’t know.” He reaches out, totally helpless, and grasps Kiyoomi’s clothed forearms. The muscles stiffen under his touch. “I’ve been dumped... _so_ many times.” 

Kiyoomi looks even angrier at this, which is kind of hilarious. “What? What’s that got to do with--”

“Oh, come on--this is my tragic backstory, man. You told me yours, now I’m telling you mine.” His thumbs caress the sensitive undersides of Kiyoomi’s arms through the fabric of his sweatshirt, and he remembers all the times he’s kissed Kiyoomi there--the pale, smooth skin, laced with purple veins--and made him shiver. “Point is, I’m not gonna let you, you fucking...perfect little hardass.” 

Kiyoomi’s lips purse. Atsumu plunges onward. He’ll run this train off the tracks right down to hell if he needs to.

“Because I know you don’t want to,” he says, and it’s a hazardous guess indeed. 

Kiyoomi says nothing, which terrifies Atsumu more than any horror movie could. But it’s out of his hands. He squeezes Kiyoomi’s arms, reassuring, and lets go. 

Finally, Kiyoomi’s face contorts into an expression he’s never seen--something agonizing and awful, like he’s just bitten down on a mouthful of the extra-sour candy they sell at the multiplex. “And?” His eyes drop, resting somewhere around Atsumu’s neckline. “What do _you_ want?” 

In the proceeding silence, Kiyoomi’s breath is unsteady, as harsh as if he’d just done a hundred burpees. Atsumu stares at those trembling lashes, and realizes he doesn’t have an answer. He can’t have one. He wants too much. He’s handed Kiyoomi the reins deliberately, out of consideration not just for Kiyoomi but for his own good. “I--uh. I want what _you_ want.” 

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m fragile,” Kiyoomi snaps, “just because I have this _phobia_.” He spits the word like it’s a slur--and it probably is, considering how, in Kiyoomi’s view, his standards of cleanliness are entirely rational. 

“You’re not fragile,” Atsumu says stupidly. “I’ve never thought that about you, ever. How could I? You’re--you’re fucking badass.” 

“Fuck off,” Kiyoomi mutters, which might be the first time Atsumu has ever heard him curse. He’s not sure if it’s more funny or hot. 

“You said I’m obvious,” Atsumu challenges, arching an eyebrow of his own. “Then you know, right?” Growing bolder, he reaches out and touches two fingers to Kiyoomi’s chin, lifting his head up until their eyes meet again. Miraculously, Kiyoomi doesn’t brush him off. 

“I wanna hear it.” Kiyoomi’s lips barely move. “I need to.”

Frozen, Atsumu’s heart thuds in his chest, loud enough that he worries Kiyoomi might be able to hear. But his next words are steady. Sure as anything, like he’s rehearsed them a hundred times. “I like you. A lot. So much that I--I’m a little nervous, too.” He finishes it off with a lame, awkward laugh, which is horrible, so bad, really; but he swallows, and the smile he offers next is resolute. 

He lets his arm drop. There. Take that, world. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t react immediately. His teeth work over his lower lip, his brows pinched. He combs his hair back with one long-fingered hand, and the sight of his newly-bare forehead sure brightens up the room. Atsumu’s heart feels like it might burst for waiting. 

“We’re not in high school anymore,” Kiyoomi mutters, having decided to finish Atsumu’s poor heart off. “You can say love.” 

A beat passes. Then, Atsumu busts out laughing, this time for real. He has to bend over and gather his composure for a moment before he can reply, as cheeky and obnoxious and overconfident as he’s ever been: “ _I_ can say it? Or do _you_ want to say it, hmm?”

“Maybe I do,” Kiyoomi replies curtly. His cheeks are red, red as the morning sun. Atsumu takes them in his palms and kisses him full on the mouth--restrained, still letting Kiyoomi take the lead, but not allowing him a single moment’s hesitation. He made the bed, after all. Now he can lie in it. 

Atsumu isn’t quite sure how they got here. On the corner desk, Kiyoomi’s monitor has gone to sleep, and his chair lies vacant. Instead, Kiyoomi’s got his ass planted right on top of Atsumu’s crotch and is kissing him fiercely, all over his face like he wants to map every inch with his lips and tongue, fingers cinched around Atsumu’s wrists to keep them flat on the futon. He keeps shifting and wriggling around like a kid after a can of coke, and it has a predictable effect on Atsumu’s cock. “ _Fuck_ , keep that up and people are gonna be asking questions.” 

Kiyoomi withdraws from Atsumu’s jawline with visible reluctance and raises an eyebrow. “What kind of questions?” 

“Like why I got attacked by a horde of angry, disturbingly horny fangirls.” 

“How unfortunate,” Kiyoomi says dreamily, and returns his spit-slick lips to the same spot. Atsumu tries to shift out of reach, but Kiyoomi only redoubles his efforts, his teeth coming out for a soft nip over his pulse. Atsumu sighs and shudders with happiness that is, at this point, indistinguishable from physical pleasure. The fabric of their sweats isn’t that thick; Kiyoomi must be able to feel every inch of Atsumu’s dick. Kiyoomi asked him what he wanted, but Atsumu isn’t even sure where to begin. 

As Kiyoomi presses forward, flattening their bodies together, Atsumu feels Kiyoomi’s own hard-on dig insistently into his stomach. Not all the way there yet, but _god_. Atsumu’s mouth waters just picturing it. He strains against Kiyoomi’s hold. “Get off me.” 

“Get you off, you mean?” Kiyoomi grinds his ass against Atsumu’s erection, sliding it between his cheeks--the fucking tease. So much for _we should take it slow_. 

“No, I mean pick your heavy ass up so I can suck your dick.” 

“Oh.” For a moment, Kiyoomi’s eyes meet his. Then they bat away shyly, and he slides off of Atsumu’s body, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. 

Atsumu sits up and presses a lingering kiss to Kiyoomi’s cheek, a sort of nonverbal thanks. Then he wrangles off his sweatshirt, finally getting some cool air on his oppressively hot skin, and nods at Kiyoomi. “You strip too, babe.”

“Babe?” Kiyoomi echoes, but complies. Atsumu goes even redder. He hadn’t meant to, wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t feel so downright happy and _free_ , but so be it. 

“Babe, dude. Same thing.” 

“No, I think those are a little--ah.” Kiyoomi trails off as Atsumu scooches onto the floor and half-kneels, half-lies between Kiyoomi’s legs, ass over his heels, planting his hands on Kiyoomi’s clothed thighs. Then, curling his fingers in the fabric, Atsumu yanks down his sweats, revealing boxers with a suspicious spot of wet, the full length of Kiyoomi’s cock outlined in navy blue. Atsumu licks his lips. 

“Condom?” Atsumu asks, a little belatedly. 

Kiyoomi surprises him: “It’s fine,” he says quickly. Atsumu blinks up to confirm, brow knit. Kiyoomi nods once. Far be it from Atsumu to protest that. 

He spreads Kiyoomi’s thighs wider, relishing the feel of well-trained muscles under his fingertips, and lowers his head. He sucks at the precum-stained fabric, pulls on the material with his teeth and lets it snap back into place. Kiyoomi’s hands curl into the sheets on either side. Feeling cold without Kiyoomi’s touch, Atsumu gets an idea. “You can pull my hair,” he offers, shooting a smirk up at Kiyoomi’s rapt eyes, the lower lip pulled bloodless between his teeth. 

When Kiyoomi threads a hand into the blonde locks at the back of Atsumu’s head, it’s enough to make _him_ shudder. He feels--he doesn’t know--so safe and secure, like this is right where he belongs. On his knees, worshipping this--this fucking guy. 

“Gonna make you cum so hard you can’t see,” Atsumu vows, playing at smugness he doesn’t quite feel, and pulls down Kiyoomi’s boxers. Kiyoomi’s erection bobs free, thick-veined and full. Gorgeous. Atsumu’s skin prickles with arousal. He gets Kiyoomi’s underwear below his knees and dives into it, swiping his tongue over the plummy tip to lap up a blob of precum. Some of it smears over his lips, drooling over his lower lip down his chin. 

The realization that he’s tasting _Kiyoomi_ for the first time hits him like a volleyball to the stomach. The unmediated flavor of it, musky and bitter, slips down his tongue and subsumes his senses. He inhales through his nose, sliding the thick, swollen length over his palate experimentally. Kiyoomi’s abs tense, the grooves between each muscle deepening, and he strokes Atsumu’s hair tenderly, like he would a particularly obedient pet. He murmurs a phrase Atsumu doesn’t catch.

Atsumu slides off with a wet _pop_ , his curiosity overtaking his desire to keep going for the moment. “What?”

“Do you want to use pet names?” Kiyoomi says it in a flat, hesitant voice, like he’s embarrassed. Atsumu lets his head flop onto one of Kiyoomi’s thighs and grins. 

“Dunno,” he says brightly. “Haven’t really thought about it.” He works a hand over Kiyoomi’s cock, but cools down a little over the thought that strikes him next. “Probably ain’t a good idea--wouldn’t wanna use one accidentally at the wrong time.” 

Kiyoomi hums in apparent agreement. Staring up at him, Atsumu’s chest burns. Words sit on the tip of his tongue, but the task at hand demands his attention. Fingertips pressing into strong, hair-dusted thighs, he eases Kiyoomi’s cock into his mouth until he feels full, until he’s sure can’t take him any further. Then he keeps going. 

He swirls his tongue around and sucks, dizzy on the flavor--it’s been _so_ goddamn long. The overwhelming heat, the _intimacy_ of flesh on flesh makes him feel stupidly hot. His eyes flutter shut; he’s sure they’re already a little damp. 

Distantly, Atsumu feels Kiyoomi’s legs shift under him. Then his eyes fly open, shocked, as a socked foot lands on Atsumu’s straining, still-clothed crotch. He whines around Kiyoomi’s cock, then pulls off and looks up at him with furrowed brows. Wiping his tender lips on the back of a hand, Atsumu’s about to make some meaningless protest when Kiyoomi’s hold on his hair tighten, pulling harshly enough to hurt. Kiyoomi’s face is blank, the red gloss over his cheekbones the only indication that he’s affected at all. 

The foot brushes over Atsumu’s erection, tracing the length of it, presses down. Atsumu gasps. The corners of Kiyoomi’s lips curl.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “Suck.” He pulls at Atsumu’s hair again for good measure. 

Atsumu’s mouth drops open; then he remembers himself, and hurries to ease Kiyoomi’s cock back between his lips, his hand taking on what his mouth can’t. He sucks diligently, more desperate for it than before, until spit mixed with salty precum runs down his chin. All the while, Kiyoomi fondles him with his foot, adding more weight one moment and withdrawing completely the next, looking off somewhere Atsumu can’t see, as if bored. His fingers tease over the back of Atsumu’s neck, brushing through the brown, unbleached hairs cropped close to his skin. It tickles, and the feeling sparks down the length of Atsumu’s spine. His skin feels tight, his nipples hard as glass. Kiyoomi’s foot presses down, the big toe right over his cockhead, and Atsumu shivers, groans. Somehow, he’s making more noise than Kiyoomi. 

“Good,” Kiyoomi says. “You’re so good to me. Thank you.” 

Kiyoomi doesn’t let him swallow. When he’s about to cum, he pulls out and spurts all over Atsumu’s willing neck and chest, Atsumu sitting back and waiting for him with his wrists crossed behind his back like the good boy that he is. Atsumu cums under Kiyoomi’s foot before he can so much as get his dick out. But there’ll be other times. Fuck it--they’ll probably do it again later, after they watch the replay. 

He feels lightheaded, exhausted. Kiyoomi helps him up, shows him where in the bathroom he keeps his mouthwash, doesn’t kiss him but thumbs over the dirty sheen to Atsumu’s lips and chin as if inspecting a piece of art. 

“I had a weird dream last night,” Atsumu confesses as he hands back the bottle and tosses the disposable cup Kiyoomi offered him. Subsequently, Kiyoomi pours one of his own. “Not an excuse, but I think it fucked with my head a little.” 

Kiyoomi meets his eyes through the mirror. “What was it?” 

“Eh…” Atsumu rubs the back of his head, stretching, half of his mouth pulled up in a reluctant grimace. “It’s pretty embarrassing.” 

Kiyoomi hums. 

“You were in it,” he adds. Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, pausing with his own mouthwash before his lips. “But it wasn’t just you. My family.” 

“Oh. I see,” Kiyoomi says, clearly not seeing at all. 

“Fuck, man,” he says, half-laughing, “it’s good that you’re worried. I’m worried. But it ain’t happening again. It’s just--y’know? You can’t just pick volleyball or life. You gotta do both. This is, uh. It’s important, too.” 

Kiyoomi stares at him, opaque as ever. Atsumu tries for a reassuring smile that, once he’s doing it, feels as natural as anything. Like he’s never _not_ been smiling at Sakusa Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi nods. Says, “Yeah, I see what you mean,” and tips his head back to gargle. Atsumu leans over the bathroom counter, hands curled around the edge, watching him. He grins. 

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/winwinism).


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